


Nary A Morsel

by Gearsmoke



Category: Good Omens
Genre: Animal Death, Drabble, Feeding, Snake Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 10:09:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20928488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gearsmoke/pseuds/Gearsmoke
Summary: Just a funny thought I had.  It's short and slightly horrible.No beta.





	Nary A Morsel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seashadows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seashadows/gifts).

Once in a while, Crowley needed some time alone. He always had, although Aziraphale had scarcely noticed during the long stretch of their history when they weren't keeping each other in close company. Now, when they rarely went more than a couple of days without talking, something odd had come to light. There was a pattern; a nearly clock-precise regularity with which Crowley disappeared.

Every time, he'd return a week or so later, looking subtly different. More... not relaxed, not happier, just more _something_. It didn't last long, whatever it was, a scent perhaps? A tint to the aura? And then he'd go into seclusion again, rinse and repeat.

And it wasn't as though spending six or eight days without the demon's company was the worst thing in the world – Aziraphale could get some work done, have his own quiet stint of self-reflection and renewal. But, _but_. He was curious. Un-angelically curious, the kind of curiosity that might have gotten him into a lot of trouble when he was toeing the line.  
  
Since his dismissal, however, an immensely long lifetime of denying his inquisitive nature had been torn open, and now that he was learning to question and wonder, a monster had been released in him.

What was Crowley doing during that scheduled week of silence?

Asking hadn't helped, he'd just gotten a vague non-answer about needing to do something personal, the cant of his head hinting embarrassment, yet there was pleasure at the thought of it. Something a demon had shame over? Aziraphale's imagination hadn't nearly as much practice as Crowley's, and it went into untamed conniptions at the chance.

“Are you seeing someone?” He'd asked over lattes and macarons.

Crowley snorted, “Don't be ridiculous. I would never.”

“A professional, maybe? A massage therapist? A … uh, other kind of therapist?”

Laughing, the demon flapped his hand at Aziraphale, “Oh, like a shrink could spend twenty minutes in a room with me and not have their head explode, come on.”

“Are you shedding? Like a snake? Do you shed?”

“Fucking Heaven, Aziraphale! I'm not going to talk about this, drop it. Please, pet.”

Which Aziraphale did, until Crowley told him that his next furlough was due. The angel all but burning with want to know. Rinse. A few more guesses. Another gentle rebuff. A week alone with that itching mystery to think about. Repeat.

But even a very stubborn angel can figure out when it's time to give up on a given tack. He stopped asking, even if the question still sizzled in him as the next due date approached. Crowley didn't need to announce it anymore, he knew.

The week before, Aziraphale had given Crowley a key. “In case you need to let yourself in when I'm not here,” He'd said, “I really should have given this to you earlier. I just hadn't thought of it until now, but I want you to know that my home is always yours.”

Crowley had accepted the key with cautious hands, reverent. “Oh.” He'd said, “I don't use keys for my flat, the door just knows when to open.” A moment to think, and to make a change, “It'll open for you, if you ever wanted to,” He left the last few words unuttered, unresolved. To come in for some tea, to slip into my bed, to insinuate yourself into my life as I have yours. All of it.

“Thank you, dear.” Sitting down and lifting his near-empty wine glass. They'd been in the middle of a nice Australian white; young, but surprisingly mellow for its age. “If you go somewhere, I could water your plants.”

Crowley grunted amicably, he wouldn't mention that he'd had an automated watering system installed soon after he'd moved in. He only misted the plants and occasionally added fertilizer, mostly to feel like he was doing something constructive. It would be nice to have Aziraphale over more often. He could play some of his older records, bring some of his vinyls up from storage and introduce the angel to jazz or prog rock, perhaps.

Aziraphale looked fondly across the sofa at him, and soon wine-fogged gazing turned into lazily making out. The subject of keys and doors was, for a while, forgotten.

><><

Drinking by oneself was not fun, especially not when he had gotten used to doing so with his best friend, who was often howlingly funny and a delight to be around when drunk. But Aziraphale was drinking, nonetheless, and feeling a little bit sorry for himself. It was cold outside, drizzling and grey, and he'd closed the shop early, not that he minded not having any customers (although he'd made a resolution to sell off at least one of every edition he had more than three copies of.)

He was on his third toddy, returning to the sitting room in back and making himself comfortable in the spot on the sofa that Crowley usually occupied. He exhaled, and in trying to wriggle himself deeper into the furniture, felt something lumpy under his bottom.

Fishing it out, it turned out to be a familiar alligator-hide wallet. Crowley had left three days ago – how had he not noticed this was missing? With a disgruntled noise, Aziraphale made himself get up again and make the arduous six foot journey to his telephone, out of reach of the drink he'd neglected to bring with him, truly a hardship.

He dialed carefully. Crowley did not pick up. Again, making sure he selected the numbers correctly, and again, Crowley did not answer. Aziraphale huffed. After all his effort, the demon was going to make him go all the way to his flat, an entire five minutes by taxi. It wasn't just an excuse to go see Crowley, this was important, his friend needed him, he was probably looking for his wallet this very moment, worrying about all his credit cards and receipts and nearly full punch tickets for a free coffee. Not that Aziraphale had looked, of course not.

The door to the austere flat let the angel in before he'd even bothered to knock, and immediately Aziraphale noticed a smell. Familiar, earthy, and entirely wrong in this setting. It reminded him of a very, very long time ago. Somewhere warmer and dirtier than Crowley's immaculate apartment.  
  
“Crowley?” The flat was silent – or nearly so, the hum of appliances, the muffled noises of other tenants, but as silent as such a place could be.

Aziraphale walked through the living room, the smell growing more powerful. He stepped on something that made a subtle crisping sound underfoot, and looked down to see dry grass. Straw. He recognized the scent, now. Animal, ruminant. The stink of hot livestock in wooden pens waiting to be sold in a Middle-Eastern bazaar. Where it was strongest there was also the lingering metallic edge of blood. Aziraphale could see smears of it on the grey slab floor. More straw with droppings mixed in, tufts of fur, a length of rope. And further in, light pouring from the half-open door to Crowley's little ersatz Eden, his green haven.

The angel approached the garden, the room's large overhead sun-lamps making the air hot and fecund within. He peered around the door, and his eyes widened despite the brightness.

Crowley, not the familiar demon, but the serpent, massive and glistening, lay in the middle of the greenery, coiled up and apparently unaware of the angel's presence. The reptile's golden eyes were unfocused, and his jaw was slowly working, rhythmic, unconscious. Behind his head, Crowley's scaly throat was distended around a large shape, and his mouth opened and closed around the hocks of a pair of slim, hooved legs, working them in a fraction of an inch at a time.

Aziraphale stepped back, turned around without another word, and went back to his shop.

He never, ever again asked why Crowley didn't eat when they dined together.


End file.
